Flower Child
by Lady Bitter Irony
Summary: Tensions run high as Kanna awaits the first attack from the Nobuseri--and Kyuzo's personality appears to have change drastically, just when they need his stoic bloodthirstiness the most.
1. 1: A Disquieting Quiet

Author's Note: Yes, the chapters are short. Rather than post the entire story complete, I'll post each section when I finish it as a separate chapter. I figure this is better than having people wait for months until I complete the entire thing. I hope, right?

Disclaimer: None of the characters or setting of Samurai 7 are mine, and the only payment I receive for my fanfiction is the occasional smile on the face of a reader. So smile already!

***

Flower Child

***

It was an almost suspiciously perfect day. The sun beat down just warmly enough, but not too warmly, and a gentle breeze cooled everything off by just the right amount without being strong enough to blow away lightweight unattended objects. Every so often a dark shape would throw its shadow over the village of Kanna, but it was just a vast puffy cloud pushed along by the wind, not a marauding Benigumo.

On the ground, the only lumbering, vaguely threatening mechanical samurai was Kikuchiyo, and the dark shapes flitting through the surrounding forest were admiring peasant girls, not Mimizuku.

Relief and disappointment warred in Katsushiro's soul.

He was scouting, but nothing had happened that required more than a suspicious glare from him since Manzo's betrayal, which had smoothed out into the kind of all-enveloping harmony people meditated for years to achieve. For everybody else, at least. Katsushiro was still troubled after killing for the first time, but it felt wrong to be uneasy when everyone else was, well, easy, carefree and happy.

It would almost be worth the trouble of a Nobuseri attack, he decided, just to find an outlet for him dammed-up nervous energy.

Just swinging a sword would probably do something for his nerves. He decided to bring his scouting to the meadow overlooking the canyon. It was generally private there, and if those gorgeous flowers were still in bloom he could pick a bouquet to leave on Kirara's doorstep…or, failing that, he could practice decapitating moves by whacking of flowerheads.

With a feeling of empowerment at having made a decision, Katsushiro set off through the forest with a cheerful grin and a jaunty whistle each wrestling for access to his lips. He drew his sword and made a few flashy cuts in the air, to the ooohing admiration of the farmer girls in the shadows, and finished his impromptu performance by slicing through a tree. Granted, it was a sapling, but he supplemented his move with a savage cry, which was enough to frighten off his unwelcome followers.

When he arrived at the meadow he was alone, and he was happily looking forward to an afternoon of solitude, but the flower-spangle grassy expanse was already occupied.

At first he didn't recognize the figure striding along the canyon edge. As figures went, it was recognizable enough—long coat of eye-catching red, thick head of sulfur-yellow hair, narrow frame—in fact, Katsushiro should probably have known that figure anywhere just by the deadly spring in its step; but it seemed so unlikely to find Kyuzo here.

More, the red-coated samurai seemed to be whistling.

Curiosity, morbid or otherwise, kept Katsushiro in the shadow at the forest's edge. He watched as, still whistling a disconcertingly catchy tune—its jauntiness didn't bear thinking of—Kyuzo ambled to the center of the field and threw himself down amid the flowers. The boy samurai thought he heard a contented sigh, but couldn't be sure.

He crept through the trees, his footsteps covered—mostly—by the whisper of grass in the light breeze. Even when he slipped up, Kyuzo didn't seem to notice. His attention had been captured by a bobbing thing with several dozen feathery pink petals. He watched it bob in the wind, and the corners of his lips curled up in a smile.

More startling than the expression was the fact that Kyuzo showed no sign of fighting it. There was no shuddering of the mouth as its muscles resisted the change, no disparaging huff to dismiss that look of happiness, and the smile lingered.

Something like terror struck to the heart of Katsushiro. It wasn't that what he was seeing was so dangerous—yet it _was _threatening, seeing someone he thought he could rely on to be gruff and silently deadly and vaguely menacing turn into an individual with almost poetic appreciation of flowers. The world was turned upside down. Black was white, night was day, and Katsushiro couldn't become any more confounded if he returned to Kanna and found Shichiroji preparing to retire as a monk.

And the _whistling…_

Katsushiro didn't stop running until he reached the outskirts of Kanna. Even when he did, he paused only long enough to gap for breath before he resumed, at a brisk walk, his journey to the inner skirts of the village, if that was what they could be called—as even the center of Kanna had a habit of always looking like the outskirts of some larger town.

Just as his nerves had calmed down somewhat, they sparked back to electrifying life at the sound of two dozen arrows sinking into metal.

"Fine," a voice said, almost grudgingly, as if speaking was an unpleasant chore. "Next."

Katsushiro stared.

Not only had every arrow fired by the farmers landed squarely in its target, but Kyuzo was directing them.

There was not a flower in sight.


	2. 2: Butterfly on the Blade

*****

Flower Child

*****

Kyuzo never ate with the other samurai—indeed, going by observed evidence it was somewhat doubtful that he ate at all—so dinner was an excellent time to discuss him.

Unfortunately, being the only time the other six samurai were together in the same space all day, dinner was also an excellent time to discuss many other things, like how Heihachi's ballista project was coming along and if Shichiroji saw any hope at all of constructing a functioning defense against swarms of Mimizuku. Katsushiro first tried to wait the other conversations out, since Kambei tended to get testy when he was interrupted in the middle of important things, but when he saw the bottom of his rice bowl and the debate of falling rocks vs falling logs as Nobuseri deterrent continued with no end in sight, he spoke up.

"Has anybody noticed Kyuzo-dono acting, er, unusual lately?"

Silence fell over the room.

"Unusual in what way?" Gorobei asked. He looked almost ready to crack a joke, but a glance at Kambei, who had been interrupted just as he made a closing flourish in favor of logs, made him fall silent.

"Well, he seems…happy."

The blood drained from Gorobei's face. Even Kambei's eyes widened. Over their bowls of rice, Shichiroji and Heihachi exchanged glances, and Katsushiro imagined one or the other of them must be thinking as he would have in their places and making a mental note to make a head-count of all the farmers.

"I saw him in the meadow overlooking the canyon. He was…" Katsushiro couldn't quite bring himself to say '_picking flowers'_, even though it was true, so he said instead, "_Whistling._"

"Whistling, hmm." Kambei stroked his beard. "What tune?"

"I-I didn't recognize it, sensei." He wasn't certain what the older samurai was getting at—something brilliant, surely. It was good to have the mystery being worked on by other, more capable minds.

Kikuchiyo tilted his head in a whining of gears. "Well? You think something's' wrong with him?"

"Or maybe something's right," Heihachi mused. "Being that serious all the time can't be healthy."

Shichiroji nodded, but he still looked concerned for the farmers.

Kambei's beard-stroking continued. "Just whistling? Is that all?"

Katsushiro didn't have the courage to contradict him.

The older samurai nodded, mostly to himself. "It's likely unimportant. It stands to reason Kyuzo-dono has depths we haven't seen yet. If that incident with Manzo has taught us anything, it's that we all do."

#

Katsushiro escaped Rikichi's house after dinner and wandered pensively into the forest. He had hoped speaking to the other samurai might clear things up, but he was no less confused than before and now he also felt vaguely that he had been made a fool of. And thiking about it didn't help either of those things.

He wondered if he had hidden depths no one else had seen yet. Gorobei had once told him, in the somewhat stilted tone Gorobei used when he was trying to be diplomatic, that 'he tended to wear his heart on his sleeve.' So perhaps not.

Oh, well. It wasn't as if he wanted hidden depths, anyway, if they were as strange as Kyuzo's. Or as dark as Kambei's or Heihachi's, or as shameful as Kikuchiyo's, or…no, he couldn't say he wanted them.

Not at all. Not one bit.

All right, maybe a little.

He had the feeling Kirara would like it if he did.

Even so, it was unlikely he would suddenly develop dark and compelling secrets while walking in the woods. He could, however make his way to the flower meadow and continue his sword progress. If the tastes of the other peasant girls were good examples (which they were, he was certain, for peasant girls, though he wasn't so sure they were good examples of what worked on Mikumari), flashy moves with a katana went a long way to winning a girl's heart.

And even if that wasn't true, at least he wouldn't leave the meadow any more confused than he already was. The past few weeks had taught him to count his blessings. And to lower his expectations.

As he neared the meadow, he spotted a flash of red between the trees. His first emotion, rather than the expected fear, was irritation—damn it! He had wanted to use the meadow this evening, and now it was occupied! And Kyuzo had already had his chance to walk around and whistle and pick flowers and whatever else!

Then wisdom struck, and on the heels of frustration came caution.

Katsushiro peered around a thick trunk and caught the glint of dying sunlight on steel. Caution was indeed good, then. It was not a prudent idea to startle or annoy Kyuzo when he had his swords in hand.

The red-coated samurai stood still as a rusted Mimizuku, although with a good deal more grace. One sword's blade was extended before his eyes.

An orange-and-gold butterfly fluttered over his wrist, down the length of the sword's hilt, to rest on the edge of the blade's razor-fine edge.

For a moment, Kyuzo was still.

Then the blades flashed, both of them in rapid succession, and down among the meadow flowers fell four quarters of golden butterfly wing.

Katsushiro started back to the village.


End file.
